


Have You Ever Dreamed A Night Like This

by Zetaori



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetaori/pseuds/Zetaori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur wants a painting, and he always gets what he wants. Even if it comes only with a charming art dealer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have You Ever Dreamed A Night Like This

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to read/comment on LJ, you can find the story [here](http://zetaori.livejournal.com/16821.html).

Arthur sees the painting first. He likes it, and that's why he walks over. It's got nothing to do with the somewhat charming art dealer in his very colorful (and no, "though sexy" is not what he's adding in his mind at all) suit. It's beautiful, and he wants to have it. The painting, that is. Not the suit. And definitely not the art dealer. And that's why he walks over. He just wants to make that clear from the beginning.

The painting is breathtaking. It's not something he usually buys, as he prefers more figurative art, but it draws him in. He steps closer, contemplating colors and form, structure and patterns. Now he's glad he's decided to come all the way to Maastricht to visit the TEFAF this year. His eyes wander down to the label next to it. He doesn't look for a price, obviously, but for a red dot that would indicate that it's reserved or already sold.

"It's still available," a voice says right next to his ear. He startles, quickly pulling away as he notices that his nose was nearly touching the paint.

When he turns, brow furrowed reproachfully, the owner of the voice has already disappeared. He glances around and finds the art dealer a few steps away, deeply immersed in a conversation. He winks at him, and Arthur turns back quickly.

He knows he should be indignant, but this guy's voice was so deep and rough and warm and very British, and the tingling tendrils of anger just won't come. He's left with wrinkling his nose and sniffling in mild annoyance, and a distant thought of _interesting_.

When nothing happens, he clears his throat loudly. The art dealer turns around and raises one finger. _One minute_ , he mouths. This, Arthur thinks, beats every impertinence he's ever endured by anyone. Also, those are the dirtiest lips he's ever seen. One of those things make him want to stay. He wishes he could figure out which it is.

He looks around for an assistant, but there's no one else in sight. The name of the gallery is _Dream Gallery_ , written in pink letters over the entrance. The old couple calls the art dealer _Mr. Eames_. Arthur recognizes neither the name of the gallery nor the dealer's, and he's very sure he doesn't know who the couple is. The skirt the woman wears is from last year, which makes it clear that they don't even have money and won't buy anything here. He really thinks they should go away now.

It's been two minutes already and Eames is still talking, obviously paying the old hag some compliments, because she's smiling at him and leaning over to touch his arm. Arthur thinks this is highly inappropriate. He looks on his watch and decides that Eames has one more minute, and then he will leave and get the painting another time. Except he knows that it will be extremely difficult and there's always the chance someone richer than the old bag of bones will buy it. And the longer he has to wait, the more he wants to have it.

He's definitely not busy watching the way the purple suit pants stretch over Eames' ass when he suddenly turns around to look at him.

"I want to buy that," Arthur mouths and points over to the painting, just in case Eames is stupid.

Eames smiles at him, a smile that crinkles the skin around his eyes and shows off crooked teeth. And then he turns back to the conversation. Arthur groans, making sure his frustration radiates all the way over to him. His boredom makes him wander off, looking at the other paintings, accidentally moving closer to Eames on his way.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Eames rummage around in a bag and pull out a plastic box. He offers it to the lady, and Arthur hears him say, "Go on, take a cookie, I baked them myself."

Arthur freezes in disbelief. The woman laughs and declines, but Eames keeps insisting and shoves it into her hands with what Arthur clearly hears, although he cannot quite believe it, "you look like you need it."

Arthur can feel something like laughter bubble up, and he hides it behind a pained cough. Searching for distraction, he walks over to a painting that looks vaguely familiar. He pulls out his phone to check where he might have seen it before, and just when his eyes move over the words "currently on display in The Museum of", Eames stands next to him.

"Hello," he says, like he's just seen him for the first time.

Arthur frowns again, unsure whether it is meant as some kind of joke. Maybe the infamous British black humor.

"Hello," he says. "I'm interested in that painting."

Eames follows him as he walks over, and Arthur can feel his very broad shoulders bump against his on the way. Arthur turns around, expecting a quick apology. Eames smiles at him for the second time. Arthur is not sure what to make of it.

"Aaahhh," Eames says when they arrive in front of the painting. "The Soulages. A very good choice. It's -"

"I don't care," Arthur interrupts. He's vaguely irritated by the fact Eames acts like he hasn't seen him standing in front of said painting for _minutes_. "I want to buy it."

Eames' smile broadens. "Well, there's one problem."

"What? You said it was available!"

"It is."

Arthur stares at him. "If it's money, that's no problem. I'm -"

Eames interrupts, one hand suddenly on his arm. "Oh, I'm fully convinced that you're able to pay for it. It's just that you'll have to have dinner with me."

Arthur thinks it is safe to say that this is the weirdest thing that has ever happened to him. "Excuse me?" he chokes out, hoping that, against all odds, he might have misheard.

Eames shrugs in barely concealed perfidious joy. "I'm very sorry. Those are the rules. Can't do anything about it."

"So," Arthur says, smoothing over the cuffs of his shirt, "let me get this straight. You will only sell this painting to me if I …"

"Go out with me, yes."

Arthur looks at the painting. Then he looks at Eames. He looks at the way Eames' tongue darts out to wet his lips. Then, he looks at the crumbles on the floor where the thin woman has pounced on the cookie. He can feel curiosity swirl through his blood.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

Eames reaches into his pockets, his eyes never leaving Arthur's, and he pulls out a card. When Arthur takes it, Eames' fingers curl around his wrist, pulling him sharply towards him. "You know, I lied. I'm actually looking forward to it."

Arthur looks down on the card. _Mr. Eames_ , says the card. _Art dealer_ , says the card. And _smiley_ , says the card, as in a colon and a bracket, drawn with a pen under the printed letters. On the back, there's a scribbled address of a restaurant with a French name, and _don't be late_.

\---

"So what kind of art dealer are you?"

Eames has pulled out his jacket to reveal a patterned shirt. Arthur realizes, in an unusual and dirty moment, that he loves it. He guesses he would love it even more if it were somewhere on the floor, because he's seen something through it that must be tattoos. Arthur could never resist tattoos. He just hopes they taste half as delicious as Eames' voice sounds when he gives a low chuckle.

"What could you possibly mean with that?"

Arthur raises one eyebrow. "How about that at least half of those paintings you sell are either supposed to be hanging safely on the wall of a museum or are reported missing? I cannot figure out how _you_ managed to sneak them into the fair. As far as I am aware, every piece is checked a hundred times by leading experts. Oh, and by the way, I also have no idea how you managed to sneak them in. I've looked you up. You're on no list. Actually, your stand doesn't even exist. And I won't even start about your costumer service."

Eames laughs. "You know, I think I love you. What's your name?"

Arthur keeps his face straight and picks at the sad excuse for a salade de coquilles Saint-Jacques instead. "Arthur," he says. "And isn't that supposed to be a French restaurant?" He catches one of the waiters at the sleeve. "Garçon! Je suis en attente du salade de coquilles Saint-Jacques que j'ai commandé."

The waiter looks down at his salad. "Voilà monsieur, il se trouve bien devant vous."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Garçon, au contraire de vous et du maître de cuisine, moi, je suis bien à la taille à distinguer les coquilles Saint-Jacques des pétoncles."

He points down to the scallops on his plate that are most definitely not the coquilles Saint-Jacques he's ordered. The embarrassed waiter takes the plate and hurries off to the kitchen. Arthur is pretty sure that he won't see him again, let alone get another salad, so he starts picking at Eames' instead.

"So, Arthur." Eames draws out the vowel, and it makes the edges of Arthur's lips twitch. "You speak French?"

"Yes. I'm actually full of surprises." Arthur hasn't had so much fun in years. He pulls out his mobile and dials the number of his private pilot. "Saito, I will delay my departure for a few more hours."

Just when he lowers the mobile, his thumb hovering over the disconnect button, Eames whispers his answer to Arthur's comment into the silence. "I'm sure you are."

Arthur can feel a sudden warmth coil in his stomach, and he raises the mobile back to his mouth. "Actually, I might stay for the night."

He watches Eames' tongue dart out involuntarily, wetting his lips, and he thinks it was one of his best decisions in a long time to go to the TEFAF this year.

The main course arrives. It looks only vaguely better than the starter. Arthur already arranges the right sequence of French swear words in his head, but then Eames' foot nudges Arthur's under the table and he forgets all about it. It's more important that Eames' very expensive shoe moves up along the seam of his own very expensive pants, and he's growing hard under the table.

"Stop it," he hisses.

Eames smiles and moves a few inches up. Arthur shifts under the table, feeling a blush crawling up from somewhere at his back towards his neck, and he really doesn't need Eames to see it. He drops his fork and knife and moves his hands under the table to shove away Eames' foot and press a palm into his growing erection. It doesn't really help, but for a moment it feels so good.

"Want me to help you with that?" Eames asks.

Arthur has to follow his gaze to make sure that Eames is actually referring to what he thinks he's referring to. There's the sudden image in his head of Eames sliding from his chair, crawling under the table, opening buttons and zipper with his mouth and then dipping in, closing those lips around his length, and he can't hold back a choked and slightly embarrassing sound.

"No," he says. "But maybe I'll come back to it later."

From the way Eames smiles knowingly and closes his lips around the fork, sucking in the sauce, it's obvious that he knows exactly what Arthur is talking about. Arthur closes his eyes and hurries up with the food.

When a new waiter turns up and asks if they want dessert, Arthur says, "No."

Eames says, "Yes."

Arthur takes a deep breath. He knows he'll get what he wants in the end.

"What would you like?" the waiter asks, looking at Eames with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm not quite sure," Eames says, deliberately prolonging the words. "Arthur, darling, what do you think?"

Arthur needs a few seconds until he realizes Eames has spoken to him. "Think? About what?"

"What would you like for dessert? We could share."

The waiter looks back and forth between them, too well-trained to make any remarks, but there's amusement behind his eyes and Arthur makes a mental note never to go to this restaurant again. It isn't good anyway.

"Is that part of the deal?" Arthur whispers under his breath.

"Maybe. What about _tarte tatin_?"

Arthur really doesn't want to imagine what they'll do to this cake, but he shrugs. "La tarte tatin, s'il vous plaît."

The waiter nods and hurries off.

"You're impossible," Arthur says. He can't quite banish the amusement from his voice. "By the way, would you mind explaining what you were actually doing on that fair?"

"Well, I could tell you it's the best way to sell forged and stolen art." He obviously sees Arthur's face, because he hastens to add, "Not the easiest, of course. But the most fun one. But if you don't believe me on that, I could also say that it was a very intricate plan to get the attention of someone I've seen a thousand times on vernissages and charity galas and I just knew that his impeccable taste would render him completely unable to pass over such a wonderful painting."

The dessert arrives and saves Arthur from an answer. Eames digs in a fork, loads up a huge chunk of cake and holds it out expectantly. Arthur's brow furrow, but he leans in slowly. There's no way he'll take all of it in his mouth, so he decides to nibble around at the edges. When he sees that Eames is shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he makes sure he licks his lips thoroughly.

"You know," Eames says suddenly, "I don't think it's necessary to finish that all."

"I can say that I wholeheartedly agree with that." And when he sees the way Eames' eyes are locked to his lips, he quickly adds with a small smile, "the _tarte_ is an insult to everything French."

Eames has placed money on the table before Arthur can reach for his wallet, so all he has to do is catch his coat from the stand on his way out. Eames shrugs into his own coat under Arthur's careful eyes. The soft wool is black and tight over his shoulders, and Arthur can't help running his fingers over the material.

"I like your coat," he says, almost reverently.

"I like your ass."

Eames looks down at Arthur's fingers and finally captures them, raising them to his lips. He kisses his hand, lets go of it and holds out Arthur's coat. Arthur slips in, slightly dizzy.

"So," he says, because he thinks that it's really time Eames invited him over. If he doesn't, they'd have to find a decent hotel really quickly. And if they won't, well, he doesn't know yet. He might have to jump him somewhere in the alley. He'd hate what that would do to Eames' beautiful coat.

"So," Eames repeats, suddenly looking a little bit coy. "Would you … I mean, I live just over the Maas, it's quite close. We could have some tea …" He trails off when he looks into Arthur's face. "Or we could just shag."

"I think I'd like that," Arthur says.

He tries to focus on something else than Eames' lips and shoulders and chest. Their shoes click on the old, uneven cobblestone in a rhythm he tries to figure out like it would tell him how he's ended up here, and how he'll ever get away again. The street is still wet from rain earlier, and they walk towards the roar of the river.

"Just there, over the Sint Servassbrug," Eames says, the sounds rolling off his tongue easily enough, but Arthur hears that the language hasn't become familiar to him yet, or maybe never will. He pictures Eames going back to England for Christmas, being greeted at the door by a large family. Arthur wants him. Arthur wants all of it.

They reach the bridge, a majestic arch over the loud water, and it's completely deserted. Eames offers him his hand, and Arthur threads their fingers together without thinking. Eames is suddenly close, their breath mingling between them, and it's so easy to lean in and close the gap that Arthur is not even sure who did it.

There's a lot of wind over the water, and it tugs at the tips of Arthur's hair. He can feel Eames' hands threading through it, keeping a flat palm on the back of his head. Their lips fit perfectly, and Eames' hand tilts Arthur's head just right for their tongues to slide together, tasting the remnants of apple.

Arthur thinks that this is perfect. It's perfect and sweet and something to capture forever and put into a frame. They pull apart, just looking at each other, and a rush of hot impatience washes through him. He kisses him again, this time less sweet. He pulls and pushes, lets his tongue run over Eames' lips again and again while he moves to get closer and keep them walking at the same time.

As soon as they're on the other side of the bridge, Arthur shoves Eames into a wall, his fingers tangled in the collar of Eames' coat. He assumes the bricks must dig painfully into Eames' back, but he doesn't seem to mind. His eyes are wide, and he lets Arthur push his thigh between his legs. Arthur captures Eames' lips in another kiss, rough and uncompromising. Eames opens his mouth, letting Arthur's tongue in, and then there are hands tugging everywhere and Arthur feels they really should do something about that. "I hope your place is close."

Eames laughs, a soft sound against Arthur's lips that makes him want to kiss him again. "Yes. It's just around the corner."

Around the corner turns out to be a few streets down, and Arthur really wants to press him against every wall he can find on his way, but he also knows that would only impede their progress and he needs Eames naked as soon as possible. So he just tugs at Eames' hand, urging him forwards. Eames leads them to a tiny, but very pretty little house that reminds Arthur of French cottages. He lets him fumble out his keys and open the door, but then he loses all patience and pounces on him.

Eames staggers under the sudden attack, fumbling for the wall behind him, and then they're pressed against each other again, this time in the warmth of Eames' home and in the knowledge that the bedroom is very near. It gives Arthur time to trace and nudge at Eames' lips, letting his tongue slip in again, and he'd really like to bury himself in that mouth, but he decides that's not what he wants for this night.

This night, he thinks, and maybe he gasps some of it when Eames' hands roam over his body, stroke over his sides, draw him close, he wants Eames to fuck him.

Eames shoves him toward his bedroom, tugging his shirt out of his pants on the way. Arthur gasps at the sensation of rough but warm hands caressing his stomach, and then Eames' fingers move on to his nipples and Arthur's legs nearly give out. He moans and holds on tight, letting his head fall back when Eames lowers him on the bed.

He can feel Eames open one button after the other until the shirt falls away, and then Eames dips in to lick broad stripes of hot saliva over his nipples, and he can't help but thrust upwards in direct response. Eames circles his nipples with the tip of his tongue, letting Arthur move and rub against him. When he stops, Arthur groans in frustration.

Eames uses the chance to unbutton his own shirt and pants. Arthur lets his fingers trail over the bulge in his pants while he watches him undress himself, and Eames rewards him with a deep moan that shoots straight into his pulsing cock.

Eames leans down to kiss Arthur, and the kiss gets desperate and frantic when they struggle with their remaining clothes. It takes a while, but in the end they're finally naked, and Eames is hovering broad and firm over Arthur.

Arthur wishes he had more light to study all of Eames' tattoos, but for now, it's enough to trace their blurred outlines with his fingers. Eames lets him, grinding down on Arthur when his hands move deeper. Their cocks line up and rub against each other in a way that is both breathtaking and maddening.

"I want you to fuck me," Arthur says, the words falling off his lips effortlessly. "I want you to fuck me senseless."

He doesn't even wait for an answer. He just spreads his legs, and Eames slides between them with a low moan. He shoves himself closer, urging him to continue, prepare him, do anything, but Eames takes his time. He bends down to lick at Arthur's nipples again, and if it was teasing before, it's nothing compared to the black and raw need that rushes through Arthur's body, leaving him completely helpless and desperate.

"Hurry the fuck up", he pants, voice somewhere between a plea and a threat. Eames presses a finger against Arthur's mouth, and Arthur parts his lips willingly, sucking and wetting it. Eames shuts his eyes in obvious pleasure at the sight, and adds more fingers. Arthur makes sure to run his tongue over the tips, slurping obscenely when Eames removes the fingers.

"Come on," Arthur groans. "Spread me open. Prepare me for your cock."

Eames does it, just as carefully as Arthur has expected and really cannot stand right now. "If you don't fuck me soon, I swear …" He doesn't get any further because Eames twists his fingers and a surge of pleasure washes over him.

"Bloody hell, I'm on it," Eames mutters. He moves, lines himself up, and then he takes another pause. "You're so beautiful, you know. You're a piece of art. I should exhibit you, naked, with my name written all over you so everyone knows you're mine."

Arthur thinks he'd really like that, but he'd also like Eames' cock in his ass, now, and that's what he's trying to communicate when he hooks his legs around Eames' hips and pulls him in. They both moan when Eames finally pushes in. Arthur can feel his muscles give way willingly, and he closes his eyes to enjoy every burning second of being stretched and filled, until Eames is pressed flush against his body.

Eames waits, catching his breath to ask Arthur if everything is okay, and Arthur can only gasp and rock himself on Eames' cock because every inch of his body is tense and desperate and he needs Eames to start moving now. He can hear himself pant "Yeah, yeah, that's it" over the sound of blood rushing in his ears and his heart hammering away against Eames' chest. It feels so good and it's not enough.

"Stop being careful and fuck me already," Arthur hisses between clenched teeth. He reaches out for Eames' jaw, pulling him down for another kiss, bruising his soft lips, and then he moves his hand towards Eames' neck. Eames starts to move, still too gentle, and Arthur looks into Eames' eyes as he curls his fingers around his throat. "Harder," he says. "Harder."

They rock against each other, Arthur moving forward to meet each of Eames' slow thrusts, and they still keep their eyes locked.

"Come on," Arthur gasps, keeping the sure grip around Eames' throat, not firm enough to cut his air, but making sure he can feel the threat. "I need you," Arthur gasps, shoving himself against Eames' cock, not caring how needy he must look. "I need you deeper."

He gets up on his elbows, and Eames stops in his movements, eyes wide. Arthur shoves him off of him and flips them around. Eames lands on his back with a soft thud, and opens his mouth in protest, which turns into a smirk quick enough.

"You know, I never thought you –"

The sentence ends in a moan when Arthur leans forward to press his hands on Eames' broad, inked chest and pushes himself down on Eames' cock.

Arthur can feel his head dipping back as it slides in easily, filling him deeper and deeper. He can feel rather than hear Eames growl somewhere in his chest, and he clenches around him teasingly.

Eames bucks upwards, only hindered by Arthur's weight on him, and he falls back frustrated. Arthur would really like to take his time, trace every tattoo with his tongue and find out if he could make him come just like that, but his own desire is prominent and nagging. He rocks his hips, and a wave of pleasure shoots through his spine. His cock is hard and pulsing when he looks down, and he can find Eames' eyes fixed there. He lets his fingers curl around it, not quite stroking, but it's enough to make Eames buck up again.

Arthur's free hand is still holding him down, the pressure a constant warning. "Don't you dare come now," he threatens, and he can see Eames wetting his lips and swallowing.

The sight makes Arthur's hips rock forward involuntarily, and then he can't stop himself. He starts to ride Eames, pushing himself up and pressing down on Eames' swollen cock, letting it split him and fill him up.

"Your cock feels so good inside me," he moans. "You have no idea how deep you are in me, oh God."

He can feel the tension building up along his spine, and he can't last much longer. For just one moment, he takes his time to look up at the blank space over the bed. "You know, the painting would look very nice here. I could watch it every time I'm fucking myself on your cock."

"We should do that," Eames groans. His fingers dig into the soft skin around Arthur's hipbones.

"I want you to come inside me," Arthur says, moaning when Eames thrusts upwards. "Come on, do it. Come on."

Eames arches off the mattress, hitting Arthur's prostate with a hard thrust, and empties himself into Arthur's shuddering body. Arthur tightens his fist around his own cock, needing only a few hard pulls. He keeps his cock directed at Eames' chest, coming with hot white spurts over the lines of black ink.

He collapses onto Eames' chest, letting him lick his cum off his fingers.

"You know," Arthur says. "I'd really, really like that painting there."

Eames tightens his arm around Arthur's hips, sucking absentmindedly at his fingers, and hums his approval.


End file.
